


Muse

by owlaholic68



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, near-drowning-experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23262703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: James meets the infamous Mad Mage.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

> Set about ten years before the campaign.

James throws his quill aside and stands. Paces around his bookstore, fruitlessly glancing over book titles. Desperate for inspiration, lacking in these last few months.

He needs a breakthrough.

It’s raining outside, on the brink of one of Ruuen’s notorious storms. James dons his waxed cloak and boots and locks up for the night. He hurries through the darkened empty streets until he gets to the bridge out of town. Once on the other side, there is little but an abandoned lighthouse.

And the Mad Mage’s tower, of course.

Not that James actually thinks the Mad Mage is crazy or dangerous like other people seem to think. The mage just moved here a few months ago, after all. Nobody knows him. He’s come into town a few times for groceries or supplies, and every time has been grumpy and irate.

But still, that’s no reason to completely write him off as Mad.

James climbs the cliff by the abandoned Cape Tower lighthouse. Across the bay, a lonely light shines into the ocean from one of the many functioning towers.

Unusually recklessly, James goes up to the cliff edge. He stares out at the furious ocean, desperate for inspiration. Looking for something that will spark his writing. But everybody here writes about the ocean, the towers, the unforgiving sea and raging weather. He needs something unique, he needs something special.

He sighs. Fiddles with the end of one of his long Drow ears, absentmindedly twisting it in a way that always made his Mother exasperatedly scold him and tell him his ears would get stuck twisted if he kept doing that.

Oh, his Mother. She was so proud of his success with the bookstore, but he wanted to impress her even more. Become a great writer, albeit an anonymous one. Too shy for real fame or attention.

He wanted nothing more than to make his Mother proud. She was already disappointed in his lack of wife and children at his age. Quietly worried about his tiny circle of friends. She wanted him to get out more, to meet people, to properly socialize as he should.

She was old, frail. Near eight hundred years old. They both knew that she had not long left, and James yearned to make sure her last years were as happy as possible – no regrets, no worries for her precious only son.

So consumed by his thoughts, his foot slips. Wet moss and slippery rock made for a bad combination if you weren’t paying attention.

James yelps and tries to correct his footing, tries to catch himself but only gets scraped hands for his trouble. Panicked, his too-hastily-placed boot slips out from under him.

He screams and falls off the cliff into the ocean.

The water nearly knocks him unconscious from the force and the freeze. He sinks like an anchor, heavy from his protective clothing.

And – and James doesn’t know how to swim.

Oh, he really should have taken Mother’s advice and gone to the beach with his friends instead of sitting inside and reading. But – but Drow don’t go to the beach, they don’t – they don’t know how to swim, there’s no reason when just a few minutes in the sun will burn and – and now he’s going to drown and die before his Mother does and it will break her poor heart-

Something grabs him around the waist.

Great, now he’s going to get eaten by, like, a giant octopus or something.

But instead of sinking further, he’s propelled to the surface. Breaks into fresh air and coughs, sputters. He can’t see, salt water stinging his eyes and the rough storm obscuring his vision even further.

He’s still rising. Floating above the water until he’s back at the cliff edge. Whatever – or whoever – is carrying him sets him down on the grass, putting him on his side and rubbing his back as he hacks up seawater.

“There, there, you’re okay now, just breathe…” somebody soothes. A quiet male voice.

James manages to suck in a painful breath. He looks up at his savior and does not recognize him.

Shorter than James. Half-elf with a face full of freckles. Glasses streaked with dirt and rain, curly hair that would be poofy in dry weather but is hanging in sodden pathetic ringlets around the man’s face.

“Who – who are you?” He croaks. Tries to ask more but is overcome by shivers that wrack his spindly body.

“Oh darling, you’re freezing,” the man worries. He feels James’ forehead. “You’ll fall ill if you don’t warm up. Where do you live – do you live in town? That’s much too far to go in this weather in the condition you’re in. Come to my place, please, I beg of you – it’ll be warm. Just for a bit until I can be assured that you won’t get hypothermia on the way home.” He helps James stand. “My name – I am – well, you can call me Jacques, I suppose.” He laughs in a slightly manic way. “That is my name, after all, though nobody around here seems to call me that.”

Instead of going towards town, they instead head up to – oh. The Mad Mage’s tower. Then this man must be the feared Mage himself.

 _But he’s so nice…_ James thinks to himself. “Nice to meet – nice to meet you, Jacques. My name is James and I’m so – I’m so sorry for troubling you like this, I really don’t need much, just a towel and then you can send me on my way-”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” Jacques leads him inside. “Absolute hogwash, James dear. I will be doing no such thing. Let me put some tea on and then I will get your clothing dry. Your internal body temperature must be…” He continues to ramble while James gets a good look at the inside of the tower.

It used to be a lighthouse and there are still traces of the former architecture. But numerous additions have been tacked on. Seemingly randomly, though most are clustered around the base where the old lightkeeper’s cottage was.

Speaking of random, it looks like Jacques has every single thing in the world in here. By the door is a spinning wheel and a pottery wheel. The floor streaked with clay and heaping with skeins of yarn and bundles of fabric. Jacques clears a couch in the main room, tossing stacks of parchment to the floor to make space.

“I’ll put tea on,” he says, and leaves the room for a moment, but not before snapping his fingers and bringing the fireplace to a roar. Next to the fireplace are shelves built into the wall, bulging with books and jars. Large jars filled with marbles, stones, pickled oddities, and liquid that looks suspiciously like blood. Smaller jars hold glittering dust, gems, preserved eyeballs, colored sand, and various minerals that James doesn’t recognize. The books are in so many languages it makes James’ head spin.

Jacques comes back with a towel and a plush robe. He leaves and gives James privacy to remove his soaked clothing and relax in the warm robe. Comes back with two steaming cups of tea, wearing his own robe. He lays their clothing in front of the fire.

“I’d try to warm them with magic but I’m afraid I would just burn them to cinders,” he admits with a chuckle. “I tend towards power rather than control.”

James doesn’t know what to say to that, so he sips the tea. It’s a bit too sweet but otherwise good. “Thank you,” he quietly says. “You – you have a lovely house.”

“Thank you!” Jacques chirps. “Oh, we have time – we have some time. Would you like a tour? I could show you around. Here,” he sets aside his tea and offers a hand to James. “Come, please, let me show you the rest!”

“O-Okay.” James takes his very warm hand. He doesn’t know why he’s trusting the so-called “Mad Mage” like this, or why he’s so relaxed. But this man just seems eccentric and misunderstood. Besides, he saved him from drowning and is putting up with James in his own home.

Jacques takes him into the kitchen first. Less of a kitchen and more of a laboratory, though there is a cooking stove that is kept clean. Potions bubble on the main table and potion ingredients litter the counter surface.

“I was out gathering lightning moss,” Jacques explains. “It grows up on Cape Tower. But then I heard you scream. Oh well, potions can wait – it’s supposed to simmer for three days anyways. Come, let me show you the basement!” He skips downstairs. James shyly follows.

The basement could best be described as a menagerie. Jacques introduces him to several bats sleepily hanging from the ceiling. There are several aquariums with exotic fish and reptiles as well as a butterfly hutch.

Next is the top of the tower, which has been expanded into a greenhouse shielded from the harsh elements. Jacques shows him a bunch of odd plants and also explains where is going to put a beehive once he manages to trap a wild swarm.

It’s fascinating. He’s passionate about each and every project, no matter how small. He cares deeply about each plant, he has names for all his pet bats, he babbles for minutes about what extensions he’s going to build on the tower. His eyes are alight with excitement.

James’ fingers itch for a pen.

This is _exactly_ the inspiration he needed.

Jacques notices that James is starting to tire from the tour and leads them back downstairs to finish their tea. While he digs in the kitchen for some cookies or snacks, James snatches a quill from the side table and starts scribbling on his arm. He will have ink stains for days but it’s worth it – he _has_ to write right now.

He runs out of space and on his arm and finds a stack of paper plopped on his lap.

“You’re a writer,” Jacques notes with twinkling eyes. He’s gnawing on the end of a slim candle, bouncing from foot to foot. “You write?”

“Yes, I – I write poetry mostly, sometimes prose.”

“Use my paper,” he insists. “I’ve always got heaps of it.”

“Thank you.” James continues writing, overcome with ideas. Words spill from his quill until he runs out of ink. Jacques brings more. Refills James’ cup of tea while he’s at it.

James looks up later. Much later. Hours, maybe. Jacques is sitting on the floor in front of James, surrounded by thick dusty tomes. He’s looking through one and taking notes in another, chewing on a sprig of rosemary and bouncing his leg. A few lit bunches of incense shroud his face. His thick glasses have slipped down his nose and when he looks up, his bright blue eyes make James freeze and blush and – and he’s got to write about that.

He hears a soft chuckle when he throws aside his work in favor of more paper. “You’re devoted to your work,” Jacques comments. “It’s nice. You write very loudly. Your pen – the noise. It helps me focus. I’ve gotten more done on this spell in the last hour than I have in months.”

James blushes and sinks further into his chair. Perhaps he is as much Jacques’ muse as the mage is his.

More time passes. James’ work is sloppy but has great potential. Better than all the first drafts of anything he’s ever written.

He looks out one of the windows. His eyes widen. The storm has passed. The sun is rising, painting the choppy waves glittering silver and gold.

“I – I’ve been here all night,” he wonders aloud. Look at the gargantuan stack of work he’s just written. “Oh – oh my goodness, I said I didn’t want to impose upon you-”

Jacques looks up from a bowl of water that he’s been staring into for the last couple of hours. Trying to scry, apparently. “Nonsense. I’m glad to have company.” He’s thoroughly chewed his rosemary and is now worrying some ribbon between his teeth, the rest of the spool rolling at his side. He frowns and takes the end of the ribbon, cutting off the gnawed part and offering the good spool to James. “For your work. To roll it up for safekeeping. It’s still windy outside.”

“Thank you, Jacques.” James rolls up his papers and ties them with the ribbon.

“Your clothing is dry.” Jacques holds it out to him. “I’ll leave so you can change.”

“Thank you,” James echoes. “If – If you don’t mind, umm…” He trails off. “Never mind.”

“No, what? What is it? Do you need something – is something wrong? Are you feeling okay?” Jacques ratchets up to worry real fast.

James waves his hands. His cheeks are burning bright purple. “No, no, nothing wrong. I – it’s just that I haven’t had this kind of inspiration in months. I was wondering if I could come again one night? Just for a little bit.”

Jacques grins wide. “Of course, of course!” He takes James’ hands. “Sweetheart, anytime. You can come over anytime, I’d be happy to have you over. You helped me get so much done tonight too, and – and I enjoy your presence so much!”

“O-Okay.” James blushes even more. “I’ll come over sometime this week, then.”

“Excellent!” Jacques leaves to let him change clothing. He shows him out the door into the windy morning, waving goodbye with another slightly manic smile.

James walks back to town and smiles to himself, clutching his manuscript to his chest.

The Mad Mage is just a man after all. A very adorable man who is eager to help, desperate for company, kind and gentle beyond measure. He is eccentric and odd, sure, but harmless.

James will visit again. James will keep visiting and promising to stay but for an hour, only to stay overnight. James has a new friend.

A friend, or perhaps something more.


End file.
